The Game
by AkoyaMizuno
Summary: Your focus is a desperate thing, a pathetic attempt to keep him out. But that is something you can't do, never have been able to do. Not since that first murmur of 'could be dangerous.' Johnlock.


_Author's Notes: So, yeah. Things you should never do in writing: _

_1.) Start sentences with 'And,' 'But' or 'Because._

_2.) Write a sentence fragment._

_3.) Write a run-on sentence._

_4.) __Write in the second person point of view_

_Hmmm... oops? XD_

**The Game**

By far the most unnerving thing about Sherlock Holmes is his ability to _look_ at you. To look and see all those things that no one else ever sees. People speak of being able to undress you with their eyes, but with Sherlock this is truth. Sherlock looks at you and sees not a fuzzy, idealized image, but absolute reality. He sees your wrinkles, your 'bit of extra' around the middle and your ugly puckered scars. And it unnerves you because Sherlock sees all of this and _still_ looks at you with that particular, off-putting grin, and the gleam in his eyes that says he wants you. All of you. And he wants it _now_ and you will be his because he is Sherlock-bloody-Holmes and you cannot resist him.

He is, in fact, looking at you like that right now. It makes you shiver, just a little, from the sheer intensity of it. It warms parts of you that might be better off a bit cool. You shift, knowing it will not hide your arousal or the sudden dilation of your pupils, but you have to try anyway for the sheer principle of the matter. Sherlock will not see the abrupt jump in your pulse – because no one can really _see_ that sort of thing – but he will sure as hell deduce it and that's just as bad. He's always smug when he's right about these things, and a smug Sherlock does things to your mind and body that you don't want to admit to . . . willingly anyway.

He is still sitting there, watching – _dissecting, devouring_ – you with those stormy blue-grey eyes. You would wonder why he hasn't made a move yet, but you recognize this. This is a game; his stillness and his gaze are his opening gambit. It is a game you will lose, one you will run away from, as you always do. But you have to play anyway because you still have your pride, despite everything. So you stay where you are, hands clutching the thin sheets of your morning paper, smelling the scent of not quite dried ink, and doing everything except reading. Your focus is a desperate thing, a pathetic attempt to keep him out. But that is something you can't do, never have been able to do. Not since that first murmur of 'could be dangerous.' You wish you could, because this _is_ dangerous. Dangerous for you and your emotions and the friendship you share. And Sherlock is Sherlock and you have no idea what he truly intends, what he wants from you, and you worry that it is different than what you want.

Yet even now the knowledge of his attention is a squirming, uncomfortable thing inside of you. The weight of his gaze demands your attention (your _acquiescence_) regardless of all else. You swallow, and that's a loss, an admission of his effect on you. You close your eyes and count to ten, breathing deeply and steadily before making your decision. It is time to change the rules of this game, this unique form of torture. Danger has never bothered you before, why should you allow it to now?

What you do next might be considered a forfeit, your immovable object giving in to his irresistible force, but if this is a game it is one that you want to see out to the end. You must make a move that puts _Sherlock_ on the defensive for once. It has the potential to turn into a disaster, but you have to try or else you will go quietly mad under his knowing eyes. And so you put your paper down and stalk over to him, taking guilty pleasure in the widening of his eyes and the surprise you see there. It is your turn to smirk and you allow your gaze to send _him_ a message. Because if you are going to be _his_ then he is going to be _yours_ and there is shit all that can stop you. You give him a moment to digest the significance then grab his head with both hands. And you kiss him.

It is _warm, warm, warm _and you aren't sure who it is but one of you moans. You do know that it is you who tentatively nibbles his bottom lip, asking for entry. Entry Sherlock grants. And oh! That is . . . that is just . . . Coherent thought escapes you. There is nothing left but warmth and ever changing pressure and exploring tongues and the overwhelming knowledge that this is _Sherlock_. This person, who is desperately pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and attempting to mold your bodies together into one being, is Sherlock.

Heat and arousal threaten to destroy what little bit of reason you have left. And that, at last, is the thing that makes you pull back. Because there are decisions to be made and feelings to be discussed and if Sherlock wants everything then you will give it to him; but only if he gives you everything in return. He whimpers – _whimpers!_ – as you pull away and you cannot resist giving him one last, quick kiss. And then you stare at him, and he stares back, breathing harshly, and you know a moment of triumph in the realization that yours is not the only pulse that is racing.

Silence falls between you and he. The game has changed, or perhaps simply expanded, and you are waiting for him to make a move. But no. No. This isn't a game. This is you, everything you are, standing on a precipice (on a roof's edge). There is a fall in front of you, waiting for you, and everything could be alright, _would_ be alright, if only he joins you.

"Sherlock," you whisper.

And he brings his hand up and caresses your face with a gesture so utterly, amazingly tender that hope blossoms in your chest. He smiles – not a grin or a smirk, but a _smile_ – and gives you a small, affectionate kiss.

"Yes, John," he says. "Yes. Yes to everything."

And you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.


End file.
